The Fall
by xx.just.a.contradiction.xx
Summary: He can almost taste the sin dripping into his soul like the venom that trickles forth as she crashes her mouth against his; a raging collision of two storm fronts... A set of six drabbles. Edward x Tanya


_The mind is its own place, and in itself  
can make a Heaven of Hell, a Hell of Heaven._

- John Milton, **Paradise Lost**

_Temptation.  
_She watches him closely with eyes gold and aflame in a succubus glow. A smirk paints itself across her doll's face as he resists, resists, _falls_ for her intricate weaves of seduction. She doesn't have to read his thoughts to know that he's losing the battle between the Church and the Bedroom in his head. It's a shame really, that he's so bizarrely moral. He's far too beautiful for the Hamlet-like qualities he's taken on: so brooding and tortured all the time, it's unnatural. Never mind though, as she's taken a liking to broken things. Nothing is incurable, morality most of all...

_Sin.  
_He can almost _taste_ the sin dripping into his soul like the venom that trickles forth as she crashes her mouth against his; a raging collision of two storm fronts. Their granite bodies slip and slide, flesh gliding over flesh in a way that feels so wrong (_right_). Her nails claw at his back as they meld into one lone, sensual entity, and it's all he can do to keep from screaming guilty-pleasure screams into her throat. All thoughts of holy virgins fly from his head; he slips into a purgatory he'd rather not escape from. This is not biblical. It's eternal.

_Confession.  
_She steps out for an early morning hunt, and when she returns, he's nowhere to be found. Like the good, Catholic boy that he once was, she knows that he likes to confess his most devious of transgressions to the Good Doctor, in the hope that he'll find forgiveness amongst the self-inflicted purgatory. She listens at the door as the heavy, dark tones of his voice carry out into the hall. She knows those tones well; he's reverted to his self-loathing in the wake of remembrance. It's such a shame. He was so deliciously saccharine in his state of moral decay.

_Forgiveness.  
_He bows his head low, waiting for Carlisle to speak. He is reminded of times as a small child, sitting and fidgeting in a dark box as the bored tones of a priest urged him to confess his darkest of sins. At the age of six, he'd barely known what sin was. But now, _now_ he knows. And even though Carlisle sighs and pats his shoulder, explaining that what he did was not wrong, he feels not forgiveness, but remorse. Because he knows that nothing pure ever felt _so good_ and he's ashamed to admit that he'd do it all… over… again.

_Purgatory.  
_She dances through his days and nights like a recurring nightmare. He's trying _so hard_ to ignore her, to push her away, to return to himself. But she's making it so difficult. He locks himself in the study, hides in his books, refuses to acknowledge the voice in his head (that isn't actually a voice) which urges him to return to the real world and join with every other being on the planet in enjoying their descent into oblivion. But just as he regains the courage to rejoin life, he remembers the smell of her, the taste of her, the feel of her...

_Déjà vu.  
_She's sitting cross-legged on a chair reading, when he storms through the door, blasting apart the flimsy wooden frame with his granite form. With a crash of thunder they're melded together on the floor, her chair in splinters underneath them as he tears her dress from her body. He rolls over onto his back, reaches around hers and feels pieces of chair imbedded in her creamy skin, but he doesn't care and she certainly hasn't noticed because she's stripping his clothes off him in long, neat shreds with practiced motions and he's falling into oblivion, enjoying every single delicious moment…

_And thus, was the Fall of Man._

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Disclaimer: I own nothing. Kapeesh?

So this is the product of a Catholic upbringing, excitement for Breaking Dawn and procrastinating instead of doing my homework.. dear me.

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